A Love Essay
by samuraigurl1213
Summary: Love, if I had to describe it in a few short words, is knowing exactly what to do to make the other person feel so happy they squeal with pure love.... an essay on what love means to me... JKF.


_A Love Essay_

_What does love mean to you? That was the question that greeted us when we first walked into the room. And it is a question that haunts us, as it is a homework assignment, naturally._

_To me, love is only what I know. And the love I know, as cheesy as it might sound, is the love my parents share. And I know this may seem like the easy way out, but it's true. I earnestly believe with all my heart that my parents are one of the lucky few couples in the world to experience love. True love. _

_Indeed, when pressed for a definition for love my Mom (who one would assume to be an expert on the subject, being in love and all) said, "Love is a transcendental experience, one that cannot be put into words, and so, I will not even attempt"._

_Though that definition would make my project a lot easier, I don't think I'm gutsy enough to hand in a blank sheet of paper. Perhaps with rips and tears (taped back together, possibly stapled, but very botched), maybe even a tear stain or two, for symbolic measures of course. But that is all hypothetical, since, as I mentioned before, I'm not gutsy enough to hand in a blank sheet of paper. Even if it is very symbolic. _

_My Dad, on the other hand, took a completely different approach to the definition of love. When forced to answer he replied that love was like "a bus full of rutabagas." And would say no more on the matter._

_And to me, what do _I _think love is? Well, I don't think it's something very easy to describe, at all. I could launch into a hundred pages of words attempting to come up with something close to a definition of love and still not manage to scrape the surface of love. Or, I could show you a day in the life of the truest love I know; my parents. Yeah, it sounds _real _cheesy. But it's also _real _true._

_For example, look at this last Valentine's Day…_

Valentine's Day in our house, was always pretty much the same. No, scratch that. It was _always _the same. I'd go to school, my Mom would have nothing, and I'm come back, and she'd have a dozen or some roses. And they weren't even some weird color or anything, or even a special kind of rose. Just plain old red roses. This coming from the guy who said love was like a bus full of rutabagas.

However, this Valentine's Day was different. For one thing, I was home. Sick. On Valentine's Day. Never mind all the jokes that ensued (ranging from being _love_sick- my Dad- to sick off of all the pink fumes and pressures of Valentine's Day- my Mom). That already made it different.

I mean, I know my parents love me. Very much. But at the same time, I have a feeling their ideal Valentine's Day wasn't one where their kid was sitting home on the couch, observing their every move. Hell, it wasn't even _my _ideal Valentine's Day.

And in fact, I was wondering how my parents would adapt to it. It's not incredibly romantic to have your sick kid on your couch, after all. That, and I wondered how my Mom reacted to the same gift every single year. I mean, this coming from the woman who was an artist.

And artists like originality. It's a proven fact. Actually, scratch that. _Women _like originality. That fact doesn't even need to be proven.

But, ten o' clock came and went. So did eleven. And twelve. And one. And two. And finally I couldn't take it anymore (Mom says I get impatience from Dad's side of the family, Dad replies that I get self delusion from Mom's side of the family).

"Mom, when's Dad going to give you your roses? I wish he'd just hurry it up."

A smirk curled on my Mom's face, she turned to face me, finishing doing whatever housewifely duties she was doing previously (though she hates to be called a housewife, we all know she is one, it's gotten to the point where she doesn't even bother to deny it), "What makes you think that?"

I rolled my eyes, did my Mom really think I was _that _dense? "Mom, let's think logically, Dad's only given you roses since I was born."

Mom couldn't hide the lovesick smile on her face (really, she was more ill than I), "Oh no, he gave me them _long _before that…" She trailed off, a faraway look in her eye. One I instantly registered as remembrance.

I groaned, this was worse than I feared.

"Mom," I moaned, and of course, like any other child would do in my place, I extended the word until it was barely recognizable. My Mom didn't really appreciate that, but it did the trick. She was snapped out of whatever she was remembering.

Mom just shook her head, even though the look in her eyes was gone, the smile on her face had yet to disappear, "Wally's been getting me roses since- well you know what, if you really want to know…" she paused a moment, she seemed to be thinking about this, "Just stick close by me all day."

I groaned again, an ideal sick day is one spent on the couch watching TV as my Mom waits hand and foot on me. Of course, a _real _sick day was spent helping my Mom clean, which is usually what she meant by 'stick close by me' which really wasn't all too appealing of an idea. After all, I had quite a few years before I should even have to think about taking up housewifely duties.

"Or, you know you could just tell me?" I asked hopefully.

Mom glared at me, with her Mom-glare. You know, the one that could seem like a super power. It's that special blend of glare, harsh, but not _too _harsh, the one that just says it all. This particular glare said, 'you better not think about it.'

Oh well, it was worth a try.

Yep, definitely inherited self delusion, just not sure from which side of the family…

---

Now, you might be asking, how does this reflect what love means to me, at all? So far, I've only talked about the genetics of my family, threw in a few witty comments, and… discussed roses. Yes, roses. My Mom is apparently a sucker for roses.

But what does this have to do with love? _Or _getting a definition from it? Or even getting somewhat close to a definition of love?

Well besides the fact that I believe it is impossible to pen a definition of love other than to show two people who express it so fully in every aspect (from friendship to lovers), it's Valentine's Day. If love can't be shown on Valentine's Day then it can't be shown at all. Period.

But to understand my parents love as fully as I do, after knowing them for all my life, and just love in general well, we don't gain that knowledge till about… oh three o' clock.

At a quarter till three, Mom got this goofy smile on her face, and goes to retrieve the vase. _The_ vase isn't just any old vase, it's _the _vase. This really expensive crystal one my Dad got my Mom before they were even married, it's the vase that always has all the roses in it when I get home from school (which would normally be full by now). And with that goofy smile on her face she sets it out. And she is beyond happy.

Oh, but in her state of sheer happiness/ love she doesn't just set it out. She goes and gets a doily. _The _doily, the one my great Grandmother gave to her. Seriously, she's pulling out all _the _stops for a bunch of _roses_. Anyways, she smoothes out the doily, gently, and places it on the counter, gently. Moving it a little to the left, a little to the right, before finally smoothing it out and putting the water filled vase on the doily. And she just seems so happy about it, I almost don't want to point out the flaw in her expectations for Valentine's Day.

But really, if I'm not going to do it, who is?

"Um, Mom, it is traditional to wait until you know, Dad comes and gives you all the roses. Not fill it up in anticipation," I said from the counter, happily nibbling away on a cookie (no chocolates in our house on Valentine's Day, no that would be unthinkable, just roses, lots and lots of roses, oodles of roses in fact).

Mom shakes her head, and with a little grin on her face, "Oh, you just wait and see."

I'm sad to say I doubted her. I doubted my parents' understanding of love. I know better now.

Still, I heeded her instructions. After all, she is Mom and all powerful. And wait and see I did. Until I finished all my cookies. Then I got rather bored. But that only took me, about… five seconds, at most. My Mom says I have my Dad's appetite. And metabolism. And attention span. He replies to this usually with a 'no comment' since really, there is just too much truth in that statement for anyone with half a brain to be able to argue it.

But that's besides the point.

Because, when I reached back into the cookie jar (after my Mom had her head turned of course, she was attempting, rather unsuccessfully, to quell my appetite before I turned into my father, it was her claim she was trying to save the poor girl I was going to marry from being stuck with my father for her remaining- miserable- existence), but my fingers were not greeted with the feel of cookies. No they were greeted with the feel of-

"Mom, someone put a rose in the cookie jar," I complained, quickly pulling my hand out of said cookie jar. I _really _didn't want to be caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Especially after Mom had already said I wasn't allowed to have anymore cookies.

Mom turned around, ever so slowly, hands on hips, and rose an eyebrow in my direction, "And how would you know mis- Oh!" her face lit up with comprehension at my declaration, "Did you say a rose?"

And before I could utter a noise of protest, Mom had her hand down the cookie jar with an almost giddy look on her face. One similar to Dad's face on Christmas morning. Or mine, really, come to think of it. Either way, it was purely kid in the candy shop. A look my Mom, the pillar of strength in our family rarely wore. In fact, I had never in my life seen it on her face before.

Plucking the rose out of said cookie jar, Mom put it in the vase happily. Admiring the rose, and all of its beauty.

"Um, is Dad downsizing this year?" I asked, slightly confused. Really, one rose was just _pathetic._

"No, you'll see silly!" Mom sounded so elated on the fact, I really didn't want to point out the un-romanticness of a rose stuck in a cookie jar. But you know, whatever floats her boat, and gets me more cookies is alright by me.

So, instead, as Mom cooed over a little note that had a picture of a unicorn on it (I didn't even point out the cheesy factor, my heart ached for my Mom's idea of love too badly) as I grabbed another cookie. Love really does weird things to people.

---

Okay, you might still be wondering where all the love comes into this- despite the last sentence of before mentioned paragraph. And I get that, I really do. Except for the fact that you are completely and utterly wrong.

Well, so was I. I didn't think any of this was love, but really, it's one of the strongest loves out there. You might not get it. You might blame it on my excellent and perceptive storytelling skills. But I'm just telling it like it was at the time. It didn't really make much sense, till the end of my story.

So I'm going to keep on going.

Anyways, the day went on, and Mom kept finding all these roses. Each rose was a beautiful dark red, full in bloom, completely gorgeous and what not. Each also came complete with a little note which ranged from saying from Shakespeare to Homer. And I mean of the Simpson variety. It all seemed rather dweeby to me, but my Mom was quite thrilled. Especially when a rare note that my Dad had hand wrote (without stealing the words from someone else) came up.

She _squealed _each time one of us found a note with a rose. Our pillar of strength, the sense of all rationality in our house was reduced to a squealing school girl by _roses _and _notes._

And by the end of the day, the vase was over flowing with beautiful blooming roses. I had even seen my Mom pocket each and every one of those notes. She kept periodically touching her pocket, just to make sure they were still there. Or taking one out to read it. She was in heaven. Really. And she just seemed so blissful, I had stopped trying to point out how lame her idea of Valentine's Day was.

I never really did find out what was so special about roses and unicorns and what not, but I know this much. Love, if I had to describe it in a few short words, is knowing exactly what to do to make the other person feel so happy they squeal with pure love. And hell yeah, it sounds cheesy. But, I just look at my Mom, and I know that _that _is what love means to her. And thus, it's what love means to _me. _And if you don't believe me (shun the non-believer!) then I know you've never seen love before in your life.

---

_Very nice work, I don't really know what more to say. A plus. But I think that goes without saying._

_-Ms. R_


End file.
